


How To Train Your Dragon

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has always really wanted a pet. Bones isn't so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Train Your Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mackem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/gifts).



> I wrote this as commentfic for mackem when she jokingly demanded DRAGON!FIC. I do as I'm told, so I ACTUALLY WROTE IT.

The dragon is small, brown, blue-eyed, and be-winged. It huffs out disturbing little jets of flame with no discernible pattern, hiccups smoke, and has soft, shiny scales.  
  
"Can we keep it?" asks Jim immediately, because he was probably the kind of person that was never ever allowed a pet as a kid and spent his childhood feeding stray kittens and hiding toads in jars with holes punched into the lid.  
  
"No," replies McCoy firmly, arms crossed. Jim holds the pathetic little reptile up too close to McCoy's face and he skips back a step, uttering an embarrassing little squeak. Jim beams. McCoy glowers, cheeks reddening. "Stop it. We've got no idea where that thing has been. Don't touch your eyes or mouth without washing your hands first."  
  
"Aw, Bones," coos Jim, using a fingertip to stroke the dragon's belly. It starts to purr, flames spurting haphazardly out of its mouth. It doesn't seem able to control them. "You  _do_  care."  
  
"I care because I'm the one that'll be treating you for whatever ridiculous disease that thing inevitably gives you," McCoy snaps, mashing his expression into a sullen scowl. "Where did you find it?"  
  
"It followed me home," says Jim innocently. "I think it's hungry."  
  
Judging by the way it just clamped it's pointy little beak around Jim's finger, yeah, it's probably starving. Jim does an admirable job of not biting through his lower lip at the pain. He's already got three mild burns scattered over his hands.  
  
McCoy sighs and goes to get the dermal regenerator. "Only you, Jim. We can't keep it. We don't even know what it is."  
  
"It looks like a dragon," says Jim brightly. Stating the fucking obvious. The  _impossible_.  
  
"Because that's likely," mutters McCoy. "Please don't tell me you've named it already?"  
  
Jim's expression is the one he uses with varying degrees of success on authority figures when he wants to be charming or has to get himself out of trouble; it's an attempt at innocence that works best on soft-hearted, naive, gullible people. Goddammit.  
  
McCoy sighs. He knows when he's lost the fight. "You definitely named it."  
  
"Looks a bit like Chris. So I just started calling him Pikey," Jim shrugs, tickling the dragon under its chin. In response, it begins to purr happily again and then promptly belches a cloud of flame-licked smoke into his face, singing his eyebrows.  
  
"I can see the resemblance," says McCoy dryly. Then he sighs, licks his thumb, and puts out a sputtering flame in Jim's hair. "It better not piss on my stuff."  
  
Jim's smile is blinding.


End file.
